


Boardwalk Blues

by avoidingavoidance



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Sex, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Makeup Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Smoking, cartoon violence, jean makes pathologically bad decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidingavoidance/pseuds/avoidingavoidance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean knows working security at the boardwalk is a lively job, but this summer it's a little different. Or a lot different. It depends on whether he can get his head out of his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boardwalk Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFaceofaMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFaceofaMouse/gifts).



> wow this got way out of hand i regret nothing happy (late) birthday mouse my love
> 
> there is a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/avoidingavoidance/boardwalk-blues)
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://avoidingavoidance.tumblr.com)

Jean’s not good at optimism. He puts forth the effort, for sure, but some things are just beyond the grasp of crabby punk losers.

It’s only a summer job, same as always, he reasons. That’s it. Just three months, and then at the end of August it’s back to school. He’s survived it before. It’s entirely likely he’ll survive it again. Besides, summer always has a kind of rocky start, right? It’ll definitely get better. Yeah.

The pubescent, pimply son of a bitch sitting in the corner of the cramped security office snorts his snot like a fucking rhinoceros, and Jean’s attempt at Zen Buddhism shatters. He throws the kid some _vile_ shade, tapping his pen irritably against his desk.

“What, _rent-a-bacon_? Stop starin’, fuckin’ faggot,” the shithead spits in his stupid cracking wannabe-thug voice. He tries to make some threatening movements at Jean, but the effect is rather ruined by his skinned knees and the fucking dirty wife beater this asshole’s wearing.

“Sorry, when was your mommy coming to get you again?” Jean turns toward the kid, sticking his pen behind his ear. “Was it before or after she buys your diapers?”

The kid makes to spew some form of response, probably much less clever than he thinks it is, when the door flies open and nearly smacks him in the stupid pizza face. Eren, Jean’s… _vibrant_ coworker, stomps in. “Hey, Jean, Jilly’s on 13th called in an incident. Sounds like ATM, honestly. You want it?”

ATM: the dreaded, fire-breathing Angry Tourist Mother.

Jean scrubs his hands down his face with a groan. If his choices are to stay in this hot-ass office with the sludge he’d collared for shoplifting stupid kitschy merchandise or to bike down the boardwalk to some shitty little arcade and face the ATM, Jean would rather take a left and drown himself in the murky Jersey ocean.

ATM would allow him time to breathe, though, and the weather’s not half-bad today.

He nods and runs a hand through his hair, dropping his pen onto the report. “Can you babysit Teenage Dream over here?”

Eren nods, looking the kid over with a raised eyebrow. Thank god for that. 

Jean turns on his shoulder radio and scoots past Eren, ignoring the absurd faces the kid’s making at him, and sets out on his way to the far end of the boardwalk.

Being boardwalk security during prime beach season is both a blessing and a curse, especially in fucking New Jersey. On one hand, Jean never goes hungry, and there are some fucking _stellar_ beach bodies wandering around that people are more than happy to show off. That combined with the abundance of shiny things means Jean’s never skull-crushingly bored, either. 

However, the other side of things is that tourists are the angriest, most neurotic human beings on the face of the planet, and huge squads of preteens roaming like wild dogs are truly the devil’s temptation to murder.

Walking hormone surges, they are. Pathetic.

It makes the summer go by quickly, though, and Jean’s always got stories to take back to college in Philadelphia. Plus it pays decently. Not _handsomely_ or anything, but it pays.

Overall, Jean has a love-hate relationship with the job.

Some days, he _really really_ loves it.

This particular Jilly’s is one of the many smaller arcades near the boring end of the boardwalk, sandwiched between two shops that sell identical gag t-shirts and hermit crabs. People usually pass it by because there are better, less dusty options. This one doesn’t even have a goddamn skee ball setup. What kind of arcade doesn’t have skee ball? 

Jean hops off his bike and wheels it into the wide arcade entrance, giving the prize booth slave a nod as he leans the bike against his counter.

“Hey, Armin. Did you guys call in for security?”

Armin nods and smiles, brushing his blonde bangs out of his eyes. “In the back.” He pauses, biting his lip and clearly trying not to giggle. “You’ll hear all about it, I’m sure.”

Fucking phenomenal. Jean sighs and heads toward the back of the arcade.

He nearly misses them at first. He sees the middle-aged bob cut wringing her hands, sure, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. At least, not until he rounds the fucking My Little Pony plushy claw machine and nearly trips over a dude sitting on the floor.

“Oh!” Dude smiles up at Jean, all tanned dark and insanely freckly, but more than his (rather nice) face, Jean’s eyes are drawn to the bright pink bow clipped into his short black bangs. “Hi there, sorry I almost tripped you.” Jean blinks down at the guy. He’s wearing the pale yellow Jilly’s uniform shirt and fucking purple pants. Are the uniform pants purple? Why would they be purple? Why is this guy dressed like Easter and wearing a bow?

Why does the bow _suit_ him?

The tiny little girl standing in front of him gives Jean a wide smile, her hair curly to the point of madness and her grin proudly showing her missing front tooth.

“Uh, it’s okay,” Jean mumbles, stepping back so he’s not right on top of the guy.

“ _Excuse me,_ officer,” the bob cut interrupts, her bright red nails pushing her hair behind her ear. “A young man _assaulted_ my daughter and ran off. I can tell you exactly what he looked like.”

Jean raises his eyebrows, eyes widening. Holy shit.

\--

ATMs, man. Intense.

Some teenager hadn’t seen this lady’s teeny tiny daughter and, whilst cavorting about the dim little arcade, had knocked her down. He’d stopped to help her up, of course, but the thing about helping baby bears is that momma bear is always watching. _Always._

She flipped. He ran. Little girl fed the pony machine a bajillion quarters in the meantime, trying to get Rainbow Dash.

Jean learns none of this from the mother and all of it from the security cameras. Well, some of it comes from the Easter basket that had come over to try and diffuse the tension but had just ended up talking to the girl about how very purple his pants are after calling security.

‘Teenaged white boy’ is the most unhelpful description on the planet when it comes to an ocean boardwalk in New Jersey. Like, imagine the focus group for Axe body spray, multiply that by a hundred, and drop them all onto a beach where they can eat shitty food and buy pink tank tops that say ‘suns out guns out.’ Yeah. Bad.

The only thing Jean can do is direct her to the main security office to file a report, so he does. 

“Hey,” floor dude says to the little girl. “Don’t forget your bow!” 

She puts her little hand on his as he moves to pull it out of his hair, shaking her extremely curly head with a six-year-old’s strange solemnness. “I want you to keep that, because it looks pretty on you and you’re a very pretty boy.” She grins. “Plus I have loads more at home. You need it more than I do.”

The worker grins back like the fucking sun and gives the girl a heartfelt thanks, waving at her as she skips after her raging mama bear.

Jesus.

The guy stands, unfolding himself to his full, broad, taller-than-Jean height, and rubs the back of his neck idly. “Thanks for handling that, officer. You really helped me out.”

Jean stares up into his pretty hazel eyes, feeling a distinctly familiar sort of dread sink over him. The ‘oh no he’s hot’ kind. He doesn’t tell the guy that he’s not an officer of any sort. “No problem. ‘S why I’m here.”

The worker laughs, the sound warm and light-hearted. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?” He bites his lip in a way that physically pains Jean to not stare at. “Do you need anything from me?”

Jean blinks up at him, and it really _really_ fucking depresses him that he can’t find a good reason or the balls to say yes.

Shaking his head, Jean slides his hands into his pockets, and the worker smiles and heads back to his station. It sucks to see him leave, but Jean quickly finds a few fantastic reasons to watch the dude go. Those pants have made it into Jean’s good book, honestly. 

It’s slightly jarring to watch them strut past the colorful, friendly-looking shooting gallery and instead slide behind the counter of the other one, which is dark and looks like a scene cut out of an old horror film. Even more jarring is the guy’s content face, like he’s completely at peace amongst groaning animatronic skeletons and haunted cowboy boots.

Jean watches him wipe down the counter with a smile, his new bow happily adorning his bangs like it belongs there, and wonders how completely fucked he actually is.

\--

Jean doesn’t know the guy’s name, but he finds out quickly that he’s basically Jean’s polar opposite. Happy, bubbly, always working hard and talking to customers. Like, of his own free will, it seems. Plus, he always has a bright wave for Jean whenever he rolls by, and every time, it takes a lot of focus to not fall off his goddamn bike. Dude must be some kind of _people person._ It’s kinda surreal, but more than that, it’s fucking… _attractive._ Weirdly. 

It also appears that he owns pants in every color but normal, and his ass is fucking _rocking._

For two straight weeks, Jean takes every single patrol shift and picks up hours wherever he can. He bitches like a spoiled child when he’s stuck on desk jockey duty, even though he’d prized the position previously. 

His legs are sore from biking all the time, and he’s got the lobster-red sunburn equivalent of a farmer’s tan, but goddammit the boring end of the boardwalk has never been more secure.

His coworkers are starting to notice.

“Okay,” Eren says, swerving his bike around a pod of teenagers. “Level with me. Who is she.”

Jean raises his eyebrows, pedaling idly. “Who is who?”

“The girl, man,” Eren retorts, moving back by Jean’s side and nearly crashing into him. “Whoever it is that’s got you losing your shit and haunting the lame end.”

“No girl,” Jean mumbles, scratching at a dried spot of ice cream on his bike handle. It’s hot as hell today, worse than usual, and the sun’s rays feel like they’re clubbing him across the back of the neck with hot irons. There is no amount of deodorant in the world that will convince him he doesn’t reek to high heaven, not with the thick black security uniform. 

Eren sniffs and stares, scratching at the back of his head. “Okay, who is _he_ , then?”

Jean rolls his eyes and dodges around a monstrous, lost-looking family, unsuccessful in evading their desperate pleas for directions to the nearest Dairy Queen. Eren waits for him to repeat his directions about seven times, to Jean’s dismay.

“I’m serious, man,” Eren continues once Jean’s extricated himself. “You hate the sun. Should live in fucking Seattle or something. What’s got you out here so much? It’s not like you’re working on a good tan.” Jean grimaces, fending off Eren’s attempts to flick his bright red sunburn.

“I just wanted to get out more, okay? Jesus.”

Eren rolls his eyes and bikes ahead of Jean, riding straight into the Jilly’s on 13th. Jean watches him crash into the prize counter, hopping off his bike and onto the desk to harass whoever’s working the front. 

He could totally follow Eren.

It’s Wednesday, though, and Easter Bambi always works on Wednesdays. 

Jean’s head over heels. It’s disgusting. 

He passes it off as a great thirst, and for the most part it probably is. Jean’s not exactly smooth. But the other little part chirping aggressively from the back of his brain… shit, Jean can’t help but wonder if that bubbly personality holds up when he’s not in uniform. Whether he’d wave at Jean if he saw him off the clock, if he’d come over and chat or just ignore him. What his big eyes look like outside of the dingy arcade, out in the warm sun lit brighter than the ocean noon by a wide grin, and Jean’s about to puke all over himself.

Ever since that first fateful day, when Bambi had smiled down at him and adjusted that bright pink bow in his clean, soft-looking hair, Jean was fucking done for. It’s totally unfair. 

Rather than follow Eren into the arcade, he bikes slowly down to the end of the boardwalk, idly checking out shops and watching kids harass some poor hermit crabs. 

Jean spends a ridiculous amount of time at this end, sure, but he has yet to grow enough of a pair to go in and talk to the guy. He just makes excuses to patrol all the way down here, sneaking glances when he can. Bambi’s always smiling, even on the rare days that the place is inexplicably packed. 

He refills the photo booths with film and the claw machines with absurdly cheery stuffed animals, and he hangs out in his weird little Addams Family shooting gallery and sings along to whatever pop bullshit’s on the radio, and he is like perfection embodied. Some days he even wears the pink bow of his own damn accord, and he fucking rocks it.

Once he’s hit the end of the boardwalk proper, Jean turns his bike around with a sigh. He’s never been good with the wooing thing, as evidenced by an entire high school career of making an absolute worm of himself. At least now, by the tender age of 21, Jean’s figured out how to wangle one-night stands, although it’s a fairly cold existence to wake up sticky and alone.

He slows down as he wheels past the arcade, watching Eren pester Armin, and Jean’s heart kinda jiggles when he realizes Bambi’s up front with them, leaning against the desk and laughing. 

Eren notices him skulking by, unfortunately, and points him out. Jean can’t hear what he’s saying, but given that both arcade workers smile widely, he’s willing to bet Eren’s talking shit.

Then Bambi waves at him, biting his lip a little.

Oh god.

Jean runs over a lifeguard.

“ _Ow,_ Connie, god,” he grouses, picking himself up and putting his back to the arcade. The baldy lifeguard kicks him in the shin with a laugh before he jumps up. “Watch where you’re going, dude.”

“You weren’t even paying attention, man, you were experiencing Freckled Jesus.”

“Excuse me?” 

Connie raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “You don’t know Marco?” Jean stares, nonplussed, and he’s entirely sure he looks like he’s got a broom crammed up his ass. “How do you—come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Before Jean can protest, or escape on his bike, Connie’s dragging him and his ride into the fucking dusty-ass empty Jilly’s. 

“Hello, friends,” Connie hollers in a bizarre Borat voice, practically tossing Jean into the arcade. Jean tries his very best not to look over at Bambi, given that he just saw him eat shit on the boardwalk. “Marco, Jean here tells me he hasn’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” 

“It’s not much of a pleasure to make Jean’s,” Eren laughs, kicking his feet against the counter. Armin jabs him in the ribs with an arched eyebrow. Sassy.

Connie gestures between them. “Jean, this is Marco.” The brunette smiles widely, extending his hand. Jean shakes, the firmness of it more than a little surprising. He pulls away before he starts feeling weird about how warm Marco’s hand is. 

“We’ve met before, briefly,” Marco says. “You came in a few weeks ago about that little girl, right? Ever catch the guy?”

Jean scratches the back of his neck. “Fuck no.”

“Yeah, I didn’t expect you to,” Marco hums, leaning his elbow on the counter. “It made the mom feel better, though, I think. She was way more upset before you showed up.”

Eren pipes up from where he’s trapped Connie in a vicious noogie. “Wow, Jean, someone was _happy_ to see you? Lucky. All I ever get is low-key panic.”

“Try blinking more,” Jean mumbles, turning to stare out toward the boardwalk. The beach is still pretty clear for such a nice day. 

“I was really afraid she was gonna pop something,” Marco laughs. “Jean saved the day.”

Oh god.

Jean’s spared from having to come up with a cool response by his and Eren’s shoulder radios squealing, then barking out orders to check out a scene a few blocks up. He picks up his bike and rides off without looking back at the Easter angel named Marco, his ears still burning bright red.

\--

Now that Jean knows Bambi’s name, he can’t keep himself away. Not even when Marco’s wearing eye-watering salmon-colored shorts. Which he totally does.

He finds himself loitering at Jilly’s more and more, eventually giving up on making excuses for why he’s there, and he finds that falling into comfortable conversation with Marco is stupidly easy, especially when Jean’s got long breaks and Jilly’s is some pitiful degree of deserted most of the time. 

It doesn’t take him long to learn more about the Easter basket. He discovers that Marco’s a Philly college kid too, although he goes to the local Ivy League blah-blah, and he has the good grace to laugh at the mandatory rival-school jokes Jean cracks at him. He finds out that Marco’s staying at a nearby beach house while he works at the arcade over the summer to keep himself busy. He eventually learns, through subterfuge and vague grunts, that Marco’s favorite kind of Blizzard is the chocolate chip cookie dough one, although he can never eat a whole one. The half that he does eat gives him a voracious sugar high, though, and Marco on a sugar high is like an overly excited, physically affectionate pit bull. 

(There may have been piggyback rides. Marco is much heavier than he looks.)

Marco likes gummy bears, but they hurt his teeth too much to eat often. He has four younger siblings and an older sister. He’s got the most freckles out of all of them, and the darkest eyes. It’s not a great tan that paints his skin dark, but the half of him that’s Turkish from his father. Last summer he worked at a greenhouse tending flowers, but he couldn’t go back this year because the heat and the humidity made him too dizzy to be able to tolerate it for another summer.

He also learns that Marco is good at finagling these kinds of details out of Jean in kind, although he usually doesn’t realize it until he’s back out on patrol and idly replaying their conversations in his head.

“Why do you work this one?” Jean asks one day at the ass-end of June, taking a particularly well-deserved lunch break at his usual seat at Marco’s creepy shooting range. Marco blinks at him from where he’s stretching fake cobwebs from a skeleton’s shoulder to the plastic tree branch behind it. “This shooting game thing, I mean.”

“Why not?” Marco smiles, arraying the cotton cobwebs in a manner eerily approaching realistic before he moves to the counter in front of Jean and fishes around under it. “You don’t think it’s fun?”

Jean quirks an eyebrow, giving Marco a strongly questioning look before he runs his eyes over the elaborately-decorated haunted panorama.

‘Fun’ is not the first word he’d jump at. ‘Creepy,’ more like, or ‘hodge-podge.’ There’s a skeleton, a zombie… UPS guy, potentially, a line of light-up skulls for the shooters to aim their air rifles at, a pair of cowboy boots that tap and sing ‘Ring of Fire,’ some kind of bullshit grim reaper thing against the back wall, and (for some genuinely unfathomable reason) a giant, docile-looking stuffed gorilla.

“It’s something.”

“There’s a word for people like you, you know,” Marco says seriously as he pulls a few big pieces of grungy-looking white felt from under the counter and spreads them out in front of Jean.

“Oh yeah?” The blonde leans his chin in his palm and purses his lips at Marco, who is working very hard on holding the poker face. “What’s that.”

“A hater,” he replies cheerfully, finally letting the joking grin spread over his face. Jean snorts and rolls his eyes before he pokes at the corner of the musty felt. Marco hums along to the radio (more pop crap) as he pulls a black marker out of the tight back pocket of his pants. They’re the light green ones today. Jean watches him draw some kind of shape onto the felt, his tongue poking out in concentration, but he can’t help but laugh when it starts taking on the form of a Pac-man ghost.

“What’re you even doing?”

“I,” Marco starts, pulling his hand away to examine his lines before he smiles back up at Jean. “Am adding ghosts. This scene is sorely lacking ghosts.”

Jean feels his eyes widen, his cheeks flushing hot before he even has time to try and redirect his train of thought.

Marco is drawing Pac-man ghosts in Sharpie on ancient white felt because he feels his kitchen-sink mishmash of a shooting gallery is _lacking ghosts._

Jean’s so fucked. He is so so _so_ fucked.

\-- 

It’s a stormy Tuesday afternoon in mid-July when Jean bikes into Jilly’s to take shelter from the brief, warm rain, shaking out his hair. Tuesday means Armin isn’t there; instead, it’s a tall, cranky brunette who could be Marco’s nefarious clone. She’s not, but she could be. She’s actually his nefarious cousin.

“Ymir,” Jean mumbles, giving her the nod. She grins widely and leans over to cross her arms on the counter. 

“Hiya, Jeanny-boy.” Jean wrinkles his nose. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? You look like a cat in a bath.”

He gives a jerky shrug. “Patrol.”

“Yeah right. Ooh, actually,” Ymir says, leaning up to look over the machines toward Marco’s post. “We just got some shipment in. Since you’re such a Good Samaritan, why don’t you help Marco carry it around?”

Her suggestion may sound innocent, but the effect is ruined by her damn shark-like grin and the way her dark eyebrows waggle. 

That’s not exactly an offer Jean can turn down, though.

He props his bike against the counter and slinks toward the back, where Marco is indeed fishing around in some boxes and restocking the claw machines. Specifically, he’s bent way over a box of My Little Ponies, and _wow_ how do all of his pants fit him so well?

Jean backpedals, tripping over his own feet, and ignores Ymir’s cackling as he circles around and approaches from the other side.

Of course, Marco’d fucking turned around again in that time, so Jean’s faced once more with that fine ass.

The gods of The Thirst are malevolent, and they definitely have it out for Jean.

He runs a hand down his rain-soaked face and gathers himself, leaning against a machine and clearing his throat. 

Marco stands and turns to smile at Jean, blinking his wide, pretty eyes down at him. “Hi, Jean.”

“H-hey.”

His smile widening, Marco’s gaze lingers for a long moment before he turns to dump his armload of shiny ponies into the machine. “What brings you out here in the rain?”

Jean shrugs idly, scratching at the back of his head. “I was around, it kinda picked up on me.” 

“Ahh, yeah, summer storms are a pain that way. I wish it’d just make up its mind,” Marco laughs, closing the claw machine and locking it. “You look like a cat in a bath. Do you need a towel or anything?”

Jeans snorts quietly. Yeah, Marco and Ymir are definitely related, even if the only things they have in common are their features and the apparent bathing of cats. “No, I’m good,” Jean replies as he runs a hand through his dripping hair, slicking his bangs back off his forehead. Bright colors catch light out of the corner of his eye, drawing his stare down into the pile of fat stuffed bees in the machine he’s leaning on. “Thanks, though.”

“If you say so,” he hums, and the pause stretches sufficiently long between them to have Jean looking back up at him. It seems he catches Marco in the middle of some deep thought. His eyebrows are drawn together slightly, his teeth digging into his lip as he squints down at Jean. When he sees that Jean’s caught him, though, his eyes widen and he shakes his head, and then he’s back to normal. “Busy patrol today?”

That’s not a face he’s ever really seen Marco wear. The narrowed eyes, yeah, but he’d assumed Marco just has shit eyesight. For some reason, it leaves Jean feeling restless, heat creeping up into his face.

Shaking his head in answer to Marco’s question, Jean toys with the machine’s joystick, poking it left and right. “You, uh. You need any help?”

Marco crosses his arms as he leans against the distressingly pink metal of the pony machine, sucking on his lip and letting his eyes wander the way they do when he’s considering something. He blinks and tilts his head at Jean after a moment. “You don’t need to be, ah, securing anything?”

Jean wrinkles his nose, looking over his shoulder at the rain now coming down in buckets on the boardwalk, the barely-visible ocean grey and tumultuous beyond the wet sand. He turns back to Marco and gives a lopsided shrug as he reaches up to wipe at a drop of rain trickling down his throat. “Doubt anyone’s going out in this. I can probably disappear for a while.”

Another pause ticks between them, this one shorter than the last, and Marco seems to ponder for a moment before nodding with a wide smile. “If you’re sure, then yeah, I think I could use a hand with this photo booth over here.”

He slips around Jean and trots over to the contraption sitting right at the entrance to the arcade, barely sheltered from the downpour. It’s old and kind of run down, like everything else in here, and there’s a cardboard box resting on top of the battered, greying metal hut. The thing uses actual _film_ still, for god’s sake, with an automated chemical developing process that spits out the kinds of pictures you only really see in movies. The black and white ones, four of them on a little vertical strip with the contrast way too high and the first picture always some variety of surprise. 

Jean didn’t think these things still existed outside of creating artsy drama in romances, but here one is, and he can’t help the skeptical look he shoots it.

His back turned to Jean, Marco opens the huge side panel and fiddles around in the bizarre-smelling inner workings of the thing. Jean leans back against a much more modern, brightly-colored photo booth with his hands in his pockets and lets himself absolutely check out Marco’s butt. He never thought he’d find himself desperately wanting to slide his hands into the back pockets of a pair of pants that are a bright enough shade of teal that they can probably be seen from space, but here he is, there the pants are, and there is that very strong desire.

When the door slams shut with a loud, sudden _bang_ and Marco turns back to him, Jean jolts and rips his eyes back up, attempting and utterly failing to look casual. Eyes narrowed slightly, Marco takes in his bizarre, tight smile, his comically raised eyebrows, his tense shoulders, and Jean knows he got caught. Easter Bambi totally caught him staring at his ass. Oh god. 

Marco doesn’t call him out, though. He just gives Jean a nervous little grin, rubbing under his nose. Somehow, this doesn’t soothe Jean. He feels like Marco’s about to sacrifice him to whatever pagan gods have run of the Weird Artsy Couple Photo Booth.

“S-so, uh,” Jean splutters, leaning up off the other booth. “What’d you need help with?”

“I, um,” Marco starts, clearing his throat. Jean’s eyes widen. “I don’t think it works anymore, so I need a guinea pig.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Jean runs his hand through his hair again, fingers combing his still-damp bangs forward so he looks less like some kind of shore douche. “You’re the dry one.”

Marco considers him for a moment, then gives an easy shrug, and then he’s grabbing Jean’s arm and stuffing him into the photo booth before he can really say anything about it. 

So much for that. Prepared to make a series of laughably unamused faces, Jean collapses onto the tiny booth’s tiny seat and sighs. But then Marco’s ducking in after him and shutting the heavy curtain behind them. Oh.

The booth is really tiny. Like, _tiny_ tiny. No two full-grown adults can fit in here comfortably. Definitely not. 

Thus, Marco’s _incredible_ ass is fucking _right in Jean’s face._ It takes every particle of self-control he has to lean his head back and burn holes in the booth’s ceiling with his stare so he doesn’t just space out and creep _again_ on the dude that just crammed them into the world’s dinkiest possible space.

His nostrils flaring at the effort it takes to not fall over dead or pull Marco into his lap, Jean scoots as far backward as he can, like it’s anything approaching enough space.

Marco’s doing _something_ that involves bending over and, whatever, checking the camera or some shit. Jean’s pulse is roaring in his ears, his hands getting sweaty where they’re wrapped tight around the edges of the seat. He’s too fucking thirsty for this today, too _goddamn_ thirsty. Why does Marco have to be so cute? So playful? And _nice,_ Jesus Christ, Jean squeezes his eyes shut and swallows nervously as he tries to keep his breath low and even.

There’s a sweet smell too, now that they’re packed in here. Maybe it’s his cologne or deodorant or something. He just smells nice. Kinda fruity. 

The fight against a boner has Jean gritting his teeth, staring at the ceiling again.

“Oh, wait, I think it’s working now!” Jean moves his stare to the back of Marco’s head, attempting to give him a casual smile when Marco turns to grin at him over his shoulder. _Fucking hell,_ Jean has the most unfair life of anyone in a fifty-mile radius. 

The range of unfairness blows out to include everyone in the country, actually, because Marco plants his ass right on Jean’s thigh and turns to grin wider at him. Jean instinctually spreads his legs wide to accommodate Marco’s long thighs moving between them. He probably looks like a goddamn deer in headlights, and he’s long since given up on even trying to keep his blood out of his face. His dick is the more pressing matter of restraint right now, especially because Marco’s butt is. It’s in Jean’s lap. Marco is sitting on Jean’s lap and looking down at him as he braces one forearm on the wall above Jean’s head.

There’s a weird whirring sound from the camera. Maybe it’ll blow up.

The tip of Marco’s tongue wets his lips before he speaks quietly. “Sorry, I forgot how small it is in here.” Jean makes a sound that’s supposed to be a hum but sounds more like a choking frog, which has Marco giggling somehow. The whirring grows louder. It’s definitely gonna blow up. “It’s been a boring day, I kinda have cabin fever. And, ah, I might be a sucker for cheesy things like this.”

Jean definitely whimpers, his fingers still gripping the tiny stool in a white-knuckled grip. His unoccupied leg bounces agitatedly, but Marco makes no comment on it. He just looks down at Jean, biting his lip again, and then there’s a sudden, blinding white flash. 

That explains why the first picture is always mild shock.

His thigh jerking under Marco, Jean’s eyes flick between the camera box and Marco’s face, but the brunette turns and leans in front of Jean just in time for the second flash to go off. Jean can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry or pull Marco closer or melt into the floor.

“At least one of them has to be amusing, right?” Marco laughs, turning back to Jean with a wide, gentle smile. “Otherwise it’ll just be four pictures of you staring at me like I just sprouted a second head.”

Jean blinks, still unable to come up with a good response to anything in the universe. He swallows again, staring up at Marco through his wet bangs, and just as the brunette’s smile softens into something much, _much_ more intimate, the third flash goes. Jean’s not thinking about that, though.

He’s thinking about his hands, shaking from his iron grip on the seat, coming to rest on Marco’s waist. He’s thinking about Marco, his eyes warm and his smile so pretty, turning to face him more. He’s thinking about that gorgeous face leaning closer to his, their noses bumping gently, and when Marco’s lips press against his he’s not thinking about anything.

Neither of them notice the fourth flash.

Jean slides his hands up Marco’s back and closes his eyes, angling their lips together better, more firmly. Marco’s taller, especially now, when he’s leaning over Jean and reaching up to slide his hand along Jean’s cheek. His bony knees press against the inside of Jean’s other thigh, which has finally stopped jittering.

Of fucking course Marco’s lips would taste sweet. Like chapstick or… pixy stix or something. Sugar high would explain Marco’s eagerness, his bravery, but whatever the fuck lent him the spine to do this, Jean wants to thank the gods above for it. His hands slide back down to Marco’s sides, squeezing slightly, and there’s a soft, wet sound when Marco pulls a bare distance away and their lips part. He brushes another small kiss against Jean’s lips, a little tease that has him chasing after Marco and finding him again with a shuddering exhale.

The hand caressing Jean’s cheek slides around the back of his neck, angling him closer, both of them sighing against each other at the feeling.

Taking some courage from Marco, Jean straightens up against him, loosely wrapping his arms around his waist as he gently slides the tip of his tongue along Marco’s lips. It has the brunette humming warmly and leaning in further, lips parting with the tiniest little sound, and when Jean slips his tongue again into their kiss, Marco meets him and then they’re fucking _kissing._

Not like they weren’t before. But.

But now Jean’s breathing in Marco’s soft sighs, and their tongues twine and curl together, and the hand on Jean’s neck shifts so Marco can scratch his nails up the back of Jean’s head until his fingers are twisting gently in messy blonde strands. Jean pulls back with another quiet sound, his breath leaving shaky and his eyes screwing shut more.

Marco has, in record time, discovered Jean’s critical weak point. His hair. Even the lightest tugging pressure makes Jean’s breath hitch, and when he’s as dazed as he is right now, it wouldn’t surprise him if his cock is fucking solid. Stupid thirst. Thank god he’s enough of a shower that he can keep his dick tucked down his pant leg, so Marco doesn’t have to know how big of a nerd Jean is just from some light making out. Unless he wants to.

God, Jean _really_ hopes he wants to.

His nails scratching gently at Jean’s scalp, Marco takes a moment to stare at him before he ducks his head and catches his lips again, his tongue picking up right where Jean’s left off.

Jean also really hopes he’s not shaking as bad as he imagines he is. He kisses Marco easily, leaning into him for a moment before he moves to suck on his lower lip, which Marco obviously appreciates, given the rumbling hum and the way his fingers spread through Jean’s hair. Then he’s dragging his fingers together again, effectively fisting his hand in Jean’s hair, and _oh, please do not pull._

… Or please do.

‘Hot mess’ doesn’t even begin to cover Jean right now. He’s got no idea what he wants, but whatever selfish desires move him to gently bite Marco’s lower lip and breathe in the tiny hitch that brings out of him, Jean wants Marco to want it too. So badly. 

Marco pulls his lip back slowly, slick flesh sliding out of Jean’s teeth, and for a second he’s concerned that Marco might bail on him entirely. Until he moves and spreads his amazing thighs over Jean’s lap, and _holy shit Marco’s straddling him good lord._

When their lips meet again, it’s less exploratory, more… hungry. Chasing each other’s tastes, lips and tongues moving together, soft sounds marking the part of their lips just as they come together again, rhythmic and somehow perfectly in time with each other, _perfectly._ Marco’s so warm in Jean’s lap, his thighs fantastic and his ass incredible and his hand still buried in Jean’s hair and mercifully not pulling on it, but he _could_ if he wanted to and the thought has Jean wrapping his arms further around Marco and pulling them together, sliding his tongue deeper, their breaths starting to pick up in the humid air around them—

Jean’s shoulder radio _shrieks_ and frightens the fear of god into both of them, Marco yelping and jumping so hard he hits his head against the thin metal ceiling. Jean’s heart is trying to come to terms with having apparently been jumpstarted like a goddamn car battery, lodged in his throat and pounding so hard and fast it’s basically _vibrating._

The radio gives Jean a command to stop jacking off in a parking lot and come back to the office, which has Jean groaning and leaning his head back against the wall of the photo booth.

Marco giggles, though, and when Jean looks blearily up at him, his cheeks are flushed and his teeth have found his lip again.

Good lord.

“I-I gotta go,” Jean mumbles, his fingers still wrapped tight around Marco’s hips. “Gotta. Uh.” He swallows and furrows his brow, staring at the logo on Marco’s shirt as he tries to come up with a lie. Anything. Something official-sounding. “Jack off. Or something.” Dammit. 

Instantly, Jean’s eyes squeeze shut with regret, another groan wheedling its way up his throat. Marco laughs, though, the sound so different from usual because it’s breathy and deep and _damn_ suggestive. “I thought the radio told you to stop doing that.”

Jean grumbles and wrenches his unwilling fingers from Marco’s body to rub firmly at his eyes. “Fuck.”

Marco licks his lips and lets his fingers slide out of Jean’s hair, coming instead to rest on his shoulder. Taking the risk, Jean looks up again, his eyelids fluttering when Marco kisses him once more. It’s soft this time, just a brush of their lips.

They clamber out of the booth, trying to look inconspicuous, although if Marco seriously thinks Jean didn’t catch him yanking his uniform shirt down hard to cover the conspicuous bulge in his tight-ass teal pants, he must be nuts. 

Jean’s so fucked.

He clears his throat and scratches at his cheek, gaze on the floor. “So, uh. Yeah.” Awkward, awkward awkward. “See you around.” That’s even worse.

Marco fidgets, the toe of his shoe digging against the floor, before he says, “Y-yeah, okay. See ya.”

Jean doesn’t look at him again before he guns it for his bike and rides the pedals straight out into the sheeting rain. Maybe the impromptu cold shower will do him some fucking good.

\--

It’s much sunnier the next day.

“Okay, so,” Connie says, leaning toward Jean, who’s trying to cram an entire slice of pizza into his face. “Tonight, we’re thinking beach party. How about it?”

Jean stares, then gives a noncommittal shrug. He swallows somehow before responding. “Why the fuck should I care?”

“You’ve blown off all of them so far, man. You’re coming.”

“The fuck I am.”

“Jean,” chirps another lifeguard, her ponytail flopping over her sun-dark shoulder. “What’s up your butt?”

“Sasha, my dear,” Connie butts in again, physically unable to keep his two cents out of the conversation. “Jean here is madly in love.” Jean takes a good few minutes to clear the pepperoni out of his lung tissue, his face bright red. Connie continues over him. “He worships at the altar of the Freckled Jesus.”

“Ooh,” Sasha hums with a grin, wiggling her eyebrows at Jean. “Marco’s a cutie-pie. Probably way too nice for you, though.”

That part might be true, although nice people are Jean’s weakness. It’s the easiest way to fluster him. He flares his nostrils at the peanut gallery, sulking into his pizza. “I’m not fucking worshipping him, that’s weird.”

“Oh, bull,” Connie says, crossing his arms on the table. “You’re burning like an Irishman so you can roll past Jilly’s and make gooey eyes at him every day, don’t think I don’t see that shit.”

“Aren’t lifeguards supposed to watch the water? For, you know, drowning people?”

“That’s why there’s two of us,” Sasha laughs, stealing one of Jean’s pepperonis. “We take turns watching you pine from afar.”

Jean groans and squeezes his eyes shut, devouring the rest of his pizza before Sasha can steal more pepperoni. Alright, so maybe he ran out of excuses to be at that end of the boardwalk, like, a month ago. It’s just some dumb crush, he reasons silently with his grease-stained paper plate. He’ll flirt with Marco for the summer, and maybe make out some more, and that’ll probably be that. If he’s lucky, _maybe_ they’ll fool around in the backseat of his car or something. If Jean tries to push it further, Marco will inevitably get bored or frustrated with him.

Just something to make the time go by, then. That’s it. That’s all it is.

\--

Connie threatens to tell Marco about the time in elementary school that Jean cried for four straight hours about an ice cream eraser if he doesn’t go to the damn beach party, so Jean goes to the damn beach party. He’s not happy about it.

Shore security doesn’t exactly approve of these night parties. Drunk people on the beach in the dark? That’s dead people in the making. It’s nice to be out of uniform, though, and he likes to think he looks pretty hot as he stomps down the ramp into the sand, heading for the mass of wiggling glowsticks. He’d even bothered doing something vaguely stylish with his shaggy undercut.

He lights a cigarette and pipes smoke out of his nose like a dragon as he drags his ass over to the group. His boots do a good job of keeping the sand out, in addition to matching his dirty punk aesthetic, even if they make slogging through the soft dunes slow-going. 

The skinny jeans are much less forgiving on his junk than his uniform pants, though, he notes with dismay. He’s gone nearly all summer without feeling his dick plastered so close to his thigh. 

“Jean!” Connie’s shout catches his attention, so he waves in acknowledgement. They’d waited until far past the boardwalk’s closing, just in case, meaning it’s dark as fuck along the beach. 

There’s a pretty good turnout, though. Jean can pick out more than a few familiar voices, from coworkers to scrubs he knows just by virtue of being a born and bred Jersey boy. Connie tosses him a beer when he sidles up, closely followed by a few ice cubes just to be a dork.

“You got anything else?” Jean sticks his cigarette between his lips so he can twist the cap off the bottle, tossing it into a weird jetsam bucket they’d found last summer. 

“Depends,” Connie replies, opening a beer of his own and clinking it against Jean’s. “I think Thomas is bringing rum or something.”

“Nah, nah,” Jean hums. He flicks his ashes and raises his eyebrows as he sips his beer. 

“Oh, yeah, Annie’s got some pot.” 

Jean nods and tucks that information aside for later, squinting out at the moonlit ocean. With the boardwalk lights off, the light glinting off the waves is much brighter than usual. 

He finishes his cigarette and puts it out in one of the giant makeshift ashtrays they put up. Keep your beaches clean, folks. He and Connie shoot the shit for a while, exchanging work stories and whatever, until a familiar voice joins them.

“Hi, Connie,” comes Marco’s cheerful peep from behind them. Connie turns and greets him raucously, handing him a beer, and Jean chugs the rest of his before he turns around. Liquid courage. Not thinking about Marco straddling him. Also not thinking about how he’d avoided Marco all day today. “Oh, hi, Jean! I didn’t know it was you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, chucking his beer into the recycling and helping himself to another. “Dark, and all that.”

“Oh, that too,” Marco laughs, throwing the cap to his beer into the bucket. “I think it was mostly your outfit. You’re way skinnier than the security uniform lets on.” Jean raises his eyebrows, having no idea what to make of this information. “Not, like, in a bad way,” Marco continues, twisting his fingers around the neck of his bottle. His eyes narrow slightly, and Jean can’t really tell if they’re being awkward or flirting loudly with their eye contact, so he moves his gaze back to his beer.

“Uh,” Jean finally mumbles, “Thanks? Maybe?”

“Sorry,” Marco hums with a low chuckle, rubbing at his nose. It’s kinda cute. 

Jean notices with immense dismay that Marco’s wearing the damn bow in his bangs again, and that it’s fucking _hella_ cute. And it matches his outfit. He looks even more like an Easter basket than usual. Jean can’t help but smile at that, sipping his beer.

At some point in their weird little exchange, Connie had fucking sunken into the earth or something, because he’s conspicuously absent. Jean doesn’t know whether to thank him or deck him.

Either way, Marco hasn’t moved off yet, even though he’s probably got other friends around. Hell, Jean had seen Armin flitter by like five seconds ago, his hair tied up in a messy ponytail. He clears his throat and scratches idly at his neck. “So, uh. N-nice night.” Smooth, Kirschtein, real fucking smooth.

Marco smiles, though, picking at the label on his beer. “Yeah, it’s great party weather. You know a lot of people here?”

Jean shrugs. “A bunch of us know each other, yeah. Mostly from school.”

Sasha pops out of nowhere, jamming a fat pink glowstick into the chest pocket of Jean’s baggy flannel. “I’ve known Jean since kindergarten!”

“Lucky me,” Jean grouses, holding his beer against his side so he can light another cigarette. He exhales smoke toward the waves, watching Sasha crack one of those glowy necklaces and rest it like a crown on Marco’s head. Also pink, presumably to match his bow.

Jean doesn’t know whether he wants to acknowledge that it also matches the one stuffed into his shirt. 

Marco and Sasha chat for a while before she bounces off to accost more people with glowsticks, giving Jean enough time to finish his second beer. Marco finishes his too and drops it into the recycling, smiling over at Jean.

Good lord, he’s cute. And a great kisser. Uh.

“I-I’m, uh,” Jean starts, putting out his cigarette. “Gonna see about getting some weed.”

“Oh, okay,” Marco chirps, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. He’s wearing the damn purple pants again, the purple pants of booty-popping legend. Fuck.

Be brave, Jean, be brave. “Do you partake?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” the brunette replies, crossing his ankles. He considers Jean for a second, looking him over perhaps a little more slowly than is absolutely necessary. “I’ll split some with you, if you want? I have some cash.”

Jean’s got chills, and not from the damn sea breeze. “Yeah, okay.” Shit. This is either a great idea or a fucking terrible one. He’s a quiet stoner, but an incredibly horny one if it hits him right. He’s just gonna have to hope against hope that his vast thirst doesn’t lead him to make an ass of himself.

They set out across the beach, Jean waving at people when they holler at him, occasionally stopping so people can chat with Marco. Annie’s at the other end of the party, near Reiner and the boombox. Marco’s face kinda lights up when he sees that she has pot cookies, which makes Jean laugh. Of course he’d be the edibles type. Jean hands her some crumpled cash and flicks at Marco’s knuckles when he tries to go for his pockets.

“Oh, Jean, you don’t have to—”

“I know that,” he grouses, handing Marco his cookie. Nodding his thanks to the teeny blonde, Jean meanders over to the raised boardwalk, where he pulls himself up to sit on the salty wood. 

“Thank you,” Marco says, wiggling up to sit next to Jean. 

“Don’t mention it. I still owed you from the last Dairy Queen run.” Jean leans his arms on the metal of the guard rail, taking a good whiff of his own cookie before stuffing it in his face. If there’s a way to describe how Jean deals with food, it’d be ‘graceless.’ Marco’s much more chill about the whole eating thing, even taking the time to chew before he swallows.

“Did you come to the other parties?” Marco sucks a few crumbs off his finger as he asks, which Jean definitely does not watch.

“Nah. Can’t say I’m big on parties. You?”

Marco nods, leaning his chin against the rail. “It’s a nice way to get to know people. They’re a lot of fun, too. Gets me out of my room at night, which helps the cabin fever. I get bored easily, you know?” Jean definitely knows. His stomach also kinda sinks.

Even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get too involved, and that he wouldn’t let his dumb thirsty little crush evolve into anything even in the ballpark of _feelings,_ Jean finds them falling again into idle conversation just like they had been all summer. No having to talk about the whole making-out thing, no bringing up Jean being an avoidant toad today, nothing.

It’s easy, comfortable. Despite being literal opposites in every way, from clothes to music to general outlook on life, Jean finds it easy to relax with Marco. 

Which just makes his life so much worse.

He blows through a good amount of cigarettes as they talk, almost ensconced in their own little bubble on the boardwalk while the party whirls in front of them. Hot body aside, Marco’s too sweet to be real. It’s unfair. Nice people get under Jean’s skin like nothing else.

Jean goes into his usual quiet zone when the pot kicks in, just letting Marco talk about whatever comes up. He’s a chatty stoner, it seems. Another opposite, but another perfect fit. 

“Ooh,” Marco hums, wiggling on the creaky wood and kicking his feet idly. “I like this song.”

“Mm?”

“Seriously?” The brunette laughs, smiling widely at Jean. His eyes are dark, probably blown from the lack of light or from the high. “You really don’t listen to the radio, huh.”

“Not really.”

Marco hums, then sings along softly, his fingers tapping against the metal railing. It’s pop bullshit, sure, but Jean thinks he’s hardcore enough that he can enjoy this one song as long as Marco’s singing it. That’s a rule he may have just made up.

God only knows how long Jean’s just been staring over at Marco with this weird soft gaze. Marco either doesn’t care or hasn’t noticed.

Jean kind of really wants to kiss him again.

“I’m gonna grab another beer,” he mumbles, sliding down onto the sand. He turns to look up at Marco, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You want one?”

“Mm, sure. Thanks!”

Jean nods, turning on his heel and trying not to waddle away. It’s hard to stalk gracefully in sand. He finally hits the cooler, though, and finds Connie and Sasha sitting on it and grinning like fucking Thing 1 and Thing 2. 

“Hey there, handsome,” Sasha leers, her eyebrows wiggling at a truly impressive rate. “Makin’ friends?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Jean grumps, reaching into the other cooler and digging out two beers. 

“Ooh, feisty,” Connie laughs, tossing a balled-up wrapper at Jean and hitting him square on the nose. 

Rolling his eyes, Jean sticks one beer into his back pocket and opens the other one, taking a good swig. Before he can sass Connie back, though, Ymir rolls up and offers Jean her bowl. A rare offer, given that Ymir’s weed ranks around purple-pants legendary and does not come cheap, let alone free.

“I’m genuinely afraid of what I’d owe you for a hit off that,” Jean says, staring up at the lanky brunette. 

“Just a little information.” She grins her damn shark-grin, and it widens when Jean rolls his eyes and passes his beer to Connie. “How’s my baby cousin?”

Jean blinks, handing the bowl back to her. He holds the hit for a good few seconds, then exhales, priding himself on not coughing. “Fine? Why, should I be concerned?”

She shrugs, tucking the bowl into her hoodie pocket after checking that it won’t light her on fire. “He got dumped right after midterms last semester. ‘S why he’s slumming it out here, it’s not like he needs the money or anything.” 

“So…” Jean leans toward her slightly, eyes narrowed. “I miss your point.”

“My point, Jeanny-poo,” Ymir says as she slaps a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Is that he’s available and could definitely use some entertainment, but that he’s also been hurt recently, and I’m extremely tired of seeing him sad.” Ymir slaps her other hand on Jean’s shoulder and leans into his face, her expression dropping deadly serious. “I don’t know what I’d do if someone fucked him over again. He’s so sweet, you know? I just don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from breaking a motherfucker in half.” She smiles again, standing up straight. “Whoa, sorry, over-sharing. I just get so emotional. See you later!”

And then she bounds off into the party, cool as could be. Until Christa stops her to talk, anyway. 

Mildly terrified, Jean stares after her, shakily accepting his beer back from Connie.

Not the most subtle of threats.

He shudders and lights another cigarette, staring out at the ocean as he lets that sink in. Well, whatever. Marco’s heartbreak is just another tally on the board to lend support to his insistent ‘summer fling’ belief. Marco gets bored easily, and he’s slumming it out here, looking to just relax and have fun for a while. Fine. Jean too, or whatever. 

But… Jean takes a drag off his smoke for far too long and his throat burns. What if?

Probably not. Jean shakes his head before he raises his beer at Connie and Sasha, who look like they’re not sure whether to laugh or look sympathetic. 

Making his way back to Marco, he finds the brunette cheerfully conversing with Armin, his smile wide. Jean also finds that he’s _really_ fucking high, so maybe it’s the weed talking, but seeing Marco now kind of drives what Ymir said past home and into the neighborhood of surreal. _This guy_ got dumped? Who the fuck would dump that? Fucking look at him.

Jean hands Marco the beer from his pocket before hoisting himself back up next to him. 

Ymir’s words settle onto the backburner as Jean watches Marco and Armin chat, and even further back after Armin runs off after a trouble-making Eren, leaving them alone again. They talk for a while longer, whatever comes up, idly drinking their beers. That easiness settles over Jean’s bones again.

It’s honestly a complete accident when Jean’s hand settles onto Marco’s wrist where it rests on the railing. He pulls back, his reflexes dulled by the weed and the beers, but his reluctance is evident in the way his fingers trail over Marco’s warm skin. He watches Marco’s hand for a moment before meeting his gaze, pupils blown kind of beautiful in the moonlight. 

Neither of them say anything at first, the party raging loud a little further down the beach now.

Carefully, Jean reaches out and trails his knuckles up Marco’s forearm. The movement is slow, gentle, but the contact lights a fire in Jean’s blood. He wants to feel more of Marco, more of his warm, dark skin. He wants to know what his sweat tastes like, what he sounds like in bed, what kind of face he makes when he—

When he comes.

Jean swallows thickly, glancing back up at Marco.

“I need more cigarettes,” he murmurs, not pulling his knuckles away from the crook of Marco’s elbow. The brunette nods vaguely, licking his lips with the slightest movement of his tongue. 

“Th-there’s, uh,” Marco starts, clearing his throat. “There’s a Wawa.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them move. Then Jean’s leaning forward, and he’s sliding his hand along Marco’s cheek, and then they’re kissing again, and it’s fucking _awesome._

It stays soft and easy for all of three seconds before they’re biting each other’s lips and tangling their tongues and sliding their hands into each other’s hair. Marco pushes into Jean in equal measure, one of his hands gripping the back of Jean’s neck to pull him closer. 

When Marco’s other hand sneaks deeper into Jean’s hair, fingers sticking in his weird styling goop, Jean moans softly. Marco grins into the kiss, right as he gets the wicked idea to _pull,_ and now he’s got Jean wrapped around his little finger. He kisses down the pale column of the blonde’s throat with a low chuckle, spurred on by the tiny noises escaping Jean’s parted lips, until he sucks at his collarbone and _shivers_ when Jean whimpers for it.

“Y-you like… having your hair pulled, huh?” Marco whispers into Jean’s ear, scratching his nails through shaved hair at the nape of Jean’s neck.

Jean just gives a sound that could either be a groan or a grumble, leaning back to nip at Marco’s kiss-swollen lips before he fumbles himself into standing and holds his hands down to Marco. He hauls him to standing just to push him against the railing, his hands sliding down his sides and curling around his perfect hips, around to grab at his ass, his fucking _incredible_ ass. They kiss hungrily, much needier than yesterday, Marco leaning down into Jean’s lips and pulling him closer, closer.

“My car,” Jean mumbles, fingers shifting to get a better grip on Marco. The brunette gasps against him, his thighs spreading enough to let Jean slide between them, and when their hips grind together, Marco moans and Jean winces. His dick’s extremely unenthused about the restraint down his pant leg. He repeats himself to get Marco’s attention. “My car, ‘s like a block away.”

“N-neither of us can drive right now.”

Jean kisses him again briefly, then grins. “Not talkin’ about driving.”

“O-oh.” Marco blinks quickly before he grins too, leaning down to suck at Jean’s lip in a way that makes him kinda dizzy. “Lead the way.”

“Wait, uh.” Jean takes a step back, squinting up at Marco. “You okay with this?” The brunette scratches his cheek for a second, then smiles and nods.

“Yeah, Jean. I wanna fool around with you.” He pauses and licks his lips, looking Jean over in that way that leaves him feeling too damn hot again. “You’re cute, you know that?”

“Hell no,” Jean mumbles, pressing himself close to Marco again. He wedges himself against him, leaning in to drop messy kisses down his long, gorgeous neck. “You’re the one wearing a fucking bow.” His voice rumbles against the angle of Marco’s jaw, wringing the most beautiful damn shiver out of him.

“You don’t like it?” Marco’s voice is breathless, the sound driving Jean closer to him. He slides his thigh between Marco’s and grinds up against him, drinking in his little gasp. Damn. 

“Looks good on you,” Jean whispers, right before he bites up the curve of Marco’s ear. He hopes the brunette doesn’t notice that he has to go up on his toes to get all of it. “Wanna suck you off.”

Marco fucking _shudders,_ a low groan escaping him as he fists his hands in Jean’s shirt. “D-damn.” He nudges Jean so that he can kiss him roughly, holding him tight against his firm, warm body. “Y-yeah, yeah, I’d like that.”

“Dork,” Jean chuckles, reaching between them to palm at Marco’s cock through his pants. “Fuckin’… purple pants. Make your ass look _incredible,_ you know that?”

“Why else d’you think I wore them tonight?” Marco grins at Jean, giving him an encouraging push. 

Oh, right. Car. Yes.

Jean leans up to bite at Marco’s lip again, then grabs his hand and laces their fingers. He drags the giggly brunette across the boardwalk and onto the dark street on the other side, not wanting to go past the party where everyone could fucking see them and catcall or whatever. Marco follows his quick pace, sneaking up behind him to grab and smack at his ass, giving Jean a charming grin whenever the blonde throws him playfully dirty looks.

When Marco figures out that Jean’s cock is bulging thick against his thigh halfway to the car, he pushes Jean up against a fence, tucked away beside one of those huge, ritzy beach houses. Jean has to bite his tongue to keep from moaning and gasping at how quickly Marco figures him out, even through his pants. 

Near brainless, grinding into Marco’s palm, Jean remembers the game plan and arches his body against Marco’s as he licks his lips and smirks. He breathes across the brunette’s ear, his fingers sliding up his soft shirt and spreading across his hips and his sides and his ribs, moving up until he can rub his thumbs against Marco’s nipples with a low hum. “C’mon, c’mon,” he urges quietly, his breath hitching around a raspy moan pressed into Marco’s ear before the brunette pulls away again.

“Where’s your car?”

“Eager or something?” Jean grins and grabs Marco’s hand again, dragging him the rest of the way down the block even as he fishes for his keys and unlocks his car. He stuffs Marco into the backseat, crawling onto the seat after him and pulling the door shut. All the shore noises are left outside then, leaving just the sounds of their shaky breathing.

Marco bites his lip and spreads his thighs enough for Jean to fit between them again, but Jean just kneels in front of him, making some mental calculations. Fucking in a car is like doing yoga or something. It takes skill. 

He looks back up at Marco, watching his gaze move over him for another moment. 

God, he’s hot. Flushed, disheveled, his cock arching against his zipper… yeah, Jean wants this. Bad. 

He blinks, though, one hand moving to lace their fingers again. Marco smiles at him, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

“I know I already asked,” Jean breathes, “But are you okay with this?”

“’Course,” Marco hums, his gentle smile widening. “Are you?”

Jean looks Marco over again, unable to get enough of the way he looks right now, and tries to blink some sense into himself. “Hell yeah,” he manages after a minute. “Hell yeah, I am.” He leans forward, kissing Marco gently. “If you wanna stop at all, it’s okay.”

Marco pauses, squinting. “Jean?”

“Just sayin’.” Jean kisses him again, crawling further between his legs to press warm against him. “Makin’ sure. Or whatever.”

Even without Ymir’s threat of bodily catastrophe and all his own damn conspiracy theories, it’s not like Jean’s actively seeking to hurt this ridiculously bubbly person.

“You’re sweet,” Marco hums, wiggling so Jean can sit more comfortably in his lap before he drags his free hand up the back of Jean’s shirt, the tips of his fingers sliding firmly up the arch of his spine. “I promise I’d tell you if something was wrong, okay?”

Nodding, Jean reaches between them and pops the button on his own tight-ass pants, digging into them so he can shift his aching cock into a position that doesn’t make him wince. Marco licks his lips at how it tents Jean’s underwear, dragging his blunt nails back down Jean’s skin in a way that has the blonde gasping.

Dropping another few soft kisses against Marco’s lips, teasing at the bare part between them with his tongue, Jean pulls back again and eases the brunette’s shirt off. “Damn,” he murmurs, tossing it aside. He slides his palms down Marco’s chest, across his stomach, until he can curl his fingers around the brunette’s hips. “You’re fucking hot. How is this fair?”

“What?” Marco laughs, slouching down against the door as he grins. “You saying I’m not allowed to take care of my body?”

“Mmph,” Jean manages, leaning down to drag his tongue slowly up Marco’s breastbone. “’M saying you oughta let me take care of it for a bit.” He grins up at him as he nips his way back down Marco’s chest, scooting back along the seat as he goes. Mouthing wetly down the brunette’s stomach, Jean drags his nails across Marco’s hips to the catch of his stupidly hot pants, unfastening them easily. Marco’s hands move over him in slow caresses, unable to decide where they want to sit. 

Jean, however, knows exactly where he wants them. He presses a hot kiss against the neat trail of dark hair dragging down into Marco’s boxers, then sits up, fishing up in the passenger seat for something.

“Jean?”

Cursing softly, Jean opens the door again and flops out somewhat gracelessly. As he opens and roots around in the trunk, Marco watches him over the back of the seat. Then there’s the sound of water splashing, a plastic bottle crinkling, Jean grumbling. Marco repeats his name, blinking owlishly at Jean, who straightens up with dripping wet hair slicking into his eyes. 

He laughs at the way Jean roughly dries his hair with a towel he’d procured from the trunk, even as he wriggles his pants down enough that they’re not holding his cock hostage as much.

Jean slams the trunk and comes back around, resuming his position after he closes the door again. Marco gets the idea and sinks his fingers into Jean’s cool, damp hair, the slide familiar and much easier now that he’d haphazardly washed the product out. Whatever works.

“Mmh, Jean,” Marco sighs, trying to arrange himself in a way that’ll make Jean’s life easier. The blonde seems to have it under control, though, given the way he nudges Marco around until they’re both sprawled across the backseat in some bare semblance of comfort. Marco watches him drag his tongue back down until he hits the hem of his boxers, moving down and mouthing hot and wet and _good_ at Marco’s aching cock through the thin material, and just like that Marco’s moaning softly for him again. 

“’S thick,” Jean murmurs, his lips brushing teasingly against Marco. The corner of his lips curls up in a smirk when Marco twitches up into it with a soft whine. “Your cock’s nice, Marco.”

“Y-yeah?” Marco licks his lips, running his fingers through Jean’s bangs and pushing them out of his face. He watches Jean mouth at him for a moment longer, until the blonde gets impatient and tugs the hem of Marco’s underwear over the head of his cock. 

“Wow,” Jean breathes, his sigh hot over Marco’s exposed flesh. He grins at the shiver that runs through him from it. “Uncut, huh?”

“Mhm,” Marco hums, running his knuckles gently down Jean’s cheek. “Hope that doesn’t bug you.”

“God, no.” Jean tugs Marco’s pants and underwear down enough that his cock bounces free, already beautifully hard against his stomach. “Head’s sensitive, yeah?” Marco nods, his breath coming a little faster. Jean licks his lips as he wraps his hand around the brunette’s cock with a soft sigh, and bless him, he gets right to it.

Marco arches with a whimpering moan when Jean mouths hot up his cock, pressing his lips and his tongue against him and slicking him with saliva as he trails up toward the head, half-sheathed by his foreskin. Jean peers up at Marco as he sucks gently at his hood, watching to make sure he’s not fucking up. Marco just flushes, though, his teeth digging sharp into his lip and worrying at it. _God,_ he looks good like this.

Jean pulls away and strokes firmly at Marco’s cock, eating up the way he gasps and squeezes his eyes shut at the attention. “Feel good, Marco?” The brunette nods, his hair mussed still from making out on the boardwalk, and manages to open his hazy eyes. He watches Jean stroke him slowly, giving a soft moan as he darts his tongue out to catch the precome already dripping down his length. “You’re a fucking… walking wet dream, you know that?”

Laughing breathlessly, Marco runs one hand through his own hair, ruffling it further and knocking off his lopsided glowstick crown before he slides it back into Jean’s. He fists his fingers gently in still-wet blonde locks, then pulls, tugging just hard enough to have Jean sighing hot over his length again. “C-could say the same of you… d’you know how good you look right now?”

Cocking a grin at Marco, Jean shakes his head as much as the grip in his hair allows. “But you could tell me.”

“O-oh, _damn,_ Jean,” Marco moans, twitching his hips up into Jean’s next pull. “God, you’re hot, so damn hot, you know that? Mnh…” His back arches slightly as Jean drags his tongue from base to hooded tip in a flat, broad stroke, entirely successful in its intent to make Marco a little crazy. “D-didn’t think, _ah,_ I’d get to be here, with your mouth on me. Wanted it, though, wanted it so bad, ‘specially with how you look at me…” Jean sucks again at Marco’s foreskin, dragging his tongue around it and slicking it with saliva and thick precome, _fuck._

“You wanted me to go down on you?” Jean grins at the way Marco turns bright red and slinks down against the seat, giving a guilty little nod. “Wanted me to swallow your cock?” Another nod, this one even smaller than the first. Jean fucking loves these dirty little confessions, though, and the way they make his own dick twitch in his soaked boxers. He decides to cut Marco some slack, since he was so good and all.

Marco jumps and lets his mouth drop open on a breathless moan when Jean finally takes him into his hot, wet mouth, sucking steadily at him and slowly tonguing his way down the brunette’s length. He shakes under Jean’s attention, his head falling back against the window. The way he sighs Jean’s name, though, has the blonde gripping his cock through his underwear and giving a soft moan around him. 

“Fuck, Jean,” Marco groans, digging his fingers back through Jean’s drying hair, and the gentle pull is enough to get him moving. He bobs his head over Marco’s cock, swallowing his precome eagerly even as he flattens his tongue against the warm underside, his free hand gently stroking the base in a way that has Marco tugging at his hair again. “God, you’re gorgeous, Jean…” Marco licks his lips and swallows, sliding one hand along Jean’s cheek. “C-can you—nngh… Jean, c-can you look at me? Wh-while you…”

Jean somehow chuckles around his thick mouthful, hollowing his cheeks and sucking slowly off Marco with a deep hum. He strokes him again, licking his lips and flashing him a wide grin before he scoots down the seat and pulls Marco’s foreskin back over the head of his cock. Marco watches him kiss gently at the tip, sparing him the insane sensation of his wicked tongue, and just as Jean’s eyes lock on his, the blonde sinks down again and doesn’t stop until he’s got his nose buried in dark, slick curls and Marco’s thighs are shaking around him. 

It’s beyond hope to keep his voice down when Jean swallows around him, the feeling tight and _oh, good_ around the sensitive head of his cock, enough to make his fingers tighten again in soft blonde hair. Jean pulls back just enough to let out a deep, rumbling moan before he starts bobbing his head again, his mouth hot and wet and _amazing._ He keeps his eyes on Marco’s as he moves, picking up his pace with a shaky sigh. Marco’s moans vibrate soft around them, his chest heaving with his panting breaths between needy little sounds. “Like that, J-Jean, just like that, yeah,” Marco manages, tracing the hollow of Jean’s cheek with his thumb even as he tugs a little harder at his hair. “Oh, _fuck,_ that feels amazing. You’re ‘mazing, Jean, god…”

Jean’s eyelids flutter closed, the praise bringing a bright flush to his cheeks. He slides his hand into his boxers and strokes his own soaked length in time with his mouth. Pulling off with a loud moan, Jean steadies Marco again and sucks up the underside of his length in tight little pulls, curling his tongue against the brunette’s sensitive skin, soft moans escaping between sucks. Marco arches at that, hips shaking and voice growing louder. He utters more breathless praises, watching Jean’s face flush darker even as he makes his way back up to the head and swallows him down again, takes him again into his fucking _incredible_ mouth.

“J-Jean, please,” Marco whines, rolling his hips up into Jean’s mouth, and thankfully the blonde has mercy and allows it. He moves his hand to Marco’s thigh and squeezes encouragingly, opening his hazy eyes again. His hand strokes over his own dick with a quick, loose grip, not enough to get him off but enough to have him bucking into it. Marco licks his lips and smooths Jean’s bangs off his face again, before he gives in with a stuttering moan and rocks his hips up into Jean’s giving mouth.

The way Jean whines for it spurs Marco on, his hips moving faster and deeper while his fingers tug at Jean’s hair and pull him further onto it, and the sloppy, wet sucking sounds combined with the way Jean’s watching him with barely-focused eyes are enough to get Marco _right there,_ right on the edge of coming. He’s hyperaware of every sound and the feeling of Jean’s tongue and Jean’s throat and Jean’s little moans, and of the way Jean’s fucking his hand now, and how fucking _close_ he looks, and the way Jean’s lips are bright red and so slick with precome, and it all just fucking knocks Marco on his ass at once. His thighs _quake_ as he hovers on the edge, his high moans growing louder and louder until he’s arching and pulling Jean back enough that he’s not fucking coming down his throat. 

He gasps Jean’s name over and over, pulling one hand free from where it’s tangled in Jean’s hair to firmly stroke his spit-slick shaft, fist bumping slightly against Jean’s lips. Jean’s mouth stays stubbornly wrapped around the head of Marco’s cock while he comes hot and thick onto his tongue, his moans trailing off into a stuttering whine. His head falls back against the window again, taking deep, uneven breaths. 

Jean lets him ride it out, holding his come on his curled tongue until Marco’s hand comes to a stop and his grip on his hair loosens with a weak sigh. 

He pulls off, and he’s not sure what comes over him, but he jabs Marco in the thigh until the dazed brunette opens his eyes and peers up at him. Then Jean smirks, opening his mouth to show Marco his come, which brings a fucking _great_ flush to his face. With a short laugh, Jean makes a show of swallowing it, opening his mouth again to show Marco he’d gotten it all.

“H-holy shit, Jean,” Marco breathes, his spent cock giving a lame attempt at a lively twitch already. “Oh my god.”

“Like that?” Jean’s voice is rough from having Marco’s cock down his throat. The sound makes Marco groan, reaching for Jean and trying to coerce him into coming closer. “’M gonna make a mess if I come over here,” he breathes, only feebly resisting Marco’s soft smile and his tugs for a moment longer before he straddles Marco and wiggles comfortably into his lap.

“That’s fine,” Marco murmurs, nudging his nose against Jean’s in a ridiculously tender gesture for someone who’d just been fucking his mouth. He dips and catches his lips in a deep kiss, not hesitating to slide his tongue along Jean’s. Their combined taste makes the brunette moan, one hand sliding back into Jean’s messy hair.

Jean melts against Marco, reaching up to wrap his arms around his neck. It’s kind of embarrassing, how easy it is for Marco to break Jean entirely with nothing but a shiver-inducing kiss and a promising hand winding through his hair. He can’t bring himself to care much, though, not right this second. Later, maybe.

Marco tugs gently, kissing down his jaw and making his way again to Jean’s sensitive collarbone, loving the little panting moans that Jean breathes into his ear. When Marco reaches between them and wraps his fingers around Jean’s slick cock, he nips gently at Jean’s neck, and the way he writhes against him and gasps is fucking _amazing._

Wasting no more time, Marco _pulls_ Jean’s hair and exposes his pale throat for his tongue, and it’s either that or the way he strokes Jean firmly that makes the blonde cry out for him, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He drags his tongue up the side of Jean’s neck as he jacks him off relentlessly, until he’s sucking and biting at the blonde’s ear and whispering filthy praises to him. 

It doesn’t take much to have Jean shaking for him, hips bucking into his strokes, but what sends Jean over the edge is the way Marco tells him how good he looked taking all of his cock, _so good for me,_ and Jean’s fucking gone. He cries Marco’s name as he thrusts up into his grasp, fucking his hand eagerly until he’s coming _hard_ and _messy_ onto the brunette’s tight stomach.

The praises don’t stop once Jean comes. Marco keeps telling him how good he looks, how hot he is until Jean’s stopped shaking in his lap, his breaths still heavy, but even. He lets Jean’s cock slip out of his come-slick fingers with a small laugh, reaching for some napkins on the floor of the car to clean them both up.

“I can’t fucking believe,” Jean mumbles after a long while, still parked firmly in Marco’s lap, “That I got my brains fucked out by a guy wearing purple pants and a _bow._ ”

Marco laughs, pulling Jean into his chest and kissing him again. “Sorry, I guess.”

“God, _why?”_

“Mm, the bow. Not the pants or the brains.”

Jean laughs, ducking his head to bury his face in Marco’s warm, bare shoulder. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, and I guess for, uh. Not warning you.”

“That you’re a kinky bastard?”

Marco wraps his arms tighter around Jean’s waist, blushing so hard Jean can _feel_ it. “Y-yeah.”

“Don’t you dare. That’s the hottest shit I’ve ever done, no lie.” Jean burrows deeper, wiggling his arms around Marco’s chest with a sigh. “Besides, I tackle people for a living. I’m allowed to get fucked every now and again.”

“Mm, good outlook,” Marco hums, smiling into Jean’s hair. He trails his fingers over the small of Jean’s back for a while, pondering quietly. “Hey, Jean?”

“Mmph.”

“You still high?”

“Probably.”

Marco nods, then coerces Jean into sitting up and looking at him, which he’s clearly grumpy about. “I, uh. The place I’m staying is like a block from here.” He bites his lip, somehow managing to look shy again. “D’you wanna stay the night?”

Jean blinks, sucking on his lip, then gives a lazy shrug without having actually devoted any thought to it. “Why not. Beats sleeping in the car.”

With a grin, Marco reaches between them to pull up his pants and stuff himself back into his boxers, letting Jean arrange himself before they tumble back out of the car on legs still made of jelly.

Jean sleeps like a fucking rock that night, happily playing little spoon to the man nuzzling gently at the nape of his neck until they both fall asleep.

\--

Jean wakes up early, momentarily perturbed by the unfamiliar environment until his shifting makes Marco pull him tighter against his chest with a sleepy sigh.

Oh. Right. 

Managing to escape Marco’s snuggles without waking him, Jean stands and stretches, wincing at the various pops that his body lets out. It’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t risen from the ocean yet, at least as far as Jean can tell with the view from Marco’s window. He yawns widely and looks around the simple room. Not much to speak of, beyond some books laying on the desk and a pile of folded clothes on the dresser, not yet stowed away.

Next to the bed, on the wall, there’s a crowded corkboard laden with pictures of Marco with all the friends he’s made, things he thinks are cute, people Jean assumes are his family. It’s like an explosion of Marco’s personal happiness, his memories and his joys in bright technicolor. Oh, and a narrow strip of four black-and-white pictures, sharp focus showing Jean staring frog-like up at a handsome Marco. Then Marco leaning in front of Jean with his tongue sticking out of his wide grin playfully, then Marco smiling down at him again, Jean’s grey-flushed face less panicked and more enraptured or something, and then…

Jean swallows and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the last picture, the perfectly captured record of the first time Marco kissed him.

It’s so tender, so intimate, so completely out of line for what Jean takes this relationship to be. Namely, not one. Marco gets bored easily. He’s just looking to have a good time. Ymir said it herself, he’s just looking for entertainment. And if Jean makes it clear from the get-go that he is too, neither of them have to get hurt, and Ymir won’t snap him like a twig. They can part friendly ways at the end of summer and call it good.

Just gotta make it clear. To both of them.

He makes the decision quickly and executes it before he can start second-guessing himself.

The note he leaves is purposely simple:

_‘Hit me up if you want a repeat. –J’_

Not even his phone number. Marco knows where to find him.

On the drive home, Jean wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have left a note at all. Or if he should have stayed and kissed Marco awake and offered to buy him breakfast. If he should have offered to take him on dates and hold his hand and sleep next to him and make him coffee when school ramps up again. 

Jean’s been through breakups, though. He’s done the whole ‘I am hurt and looking for an outlet’ thing. That’s probably all this is. Marco’s hurt enough from getting dumped that he’d willingly subject himself to New Jersey beach tourists to keep his mind off of it, it only makes sense that he’d be looking for distractions off the clock too, right?

Right?

Probably.

He rolls into his driveway and turns off his car, leaning his head against his steering wheel, and by the time he unbuckles his seat belt and drags himself like roadkill into his basement bedroom at his parents’ house, he’s almost started successfully convincing himself that he still wants Marco to just be some meaningless summer fling.

\--

Marco’s perceptive. He picks up on Jean’s mood, especially after Jean somehow finds it in himself to take desk jockey for an entire week. By then, he’s half-forced himself to forget everything but the way Marco’s dick feels in his mouth, boiling off his crush into an extreme thirst.

Even Eren has the good sense to stay out of Jean’s way during this process.

In late July, easily one of the worst times of the summer to be working at a goddamn beach boardwalk, Jean finds himself having to respond to a call at the shop on the far side of Marco’s arcade. There’s no one else who can, being as everyone else is already doing something, so he sucks it down and gets on his damn bike.

He rolls into the shop already in a sour mood and finds himself faced with the same pissant that got caught shoplifting at the start of the fucking summer. The first day he met Marco.

His mood darkens. Pissant makes the very poor choice of trying to run for it.

Jean doesn’t usually take joy in sprinting after sweaty assholes and yanking them onto their asses by the collar, but he allows himself this one vicious satisfaction as he hauls the kid back down the boardwalk, completely ignoring the bullshit he’s spewing.

Of fucking course he notices Marco talking to Ymir at the front of the arcade, leaning out to check out all the commotion. Jean just storms by, though, paying him no mind.

Later, after pissant’s incredibly frustrated mother yanks him out by the ear, Jean wonders if he’d looked cool or if he just looked like he’d been bullying a kid.

\--

This continues for another week, but Jean’s head is slowly getting stuffed with self-hatred and loneliness and the blazing image of the way Marco smiles for him, and it leads him to make some very poor choices. 

Like flirting with cute girls right in front of the arcade Marco works at.

Why? Why this? Jean asks himself this repeatedly and at a roaring internal volume even as he smiles down at a pair of tittering little French girls, his hands in his pockets and his posture bent obviously flirtatious. It’s disgusting. He knows it is. He doesn’t want them. He wants hazel eyes and brightly-colored pants and that perfect contrast in every way.

They flutter away, looking back over their shoulders as Jean gives them a lazy smirk, and when they’ve gotten far enough away, Jean lets his chest deflate again under the weight of his own idiocy. 

It’s busy on the boardwalk, but Jean knows the shoes that stop a safe distance away from him and move to rub squeaky rubber toes together. Great. Fuck.

What else could he possibly expect?

He blinks slowly up at Marco, leaning back against the railing and schooling his face casual. It’s harder with Marco, so much harder because he wants to kiss him and make him laugh, but Marco’s rocking onto his heels and scratching nervously at the crook of his elbow. 

“H-hey,” Marco says, a little too lightly for the way he’s fidgeting. “I wanted to catch you before you rode off.”

“You got me.” 

“Right. Um.” Marco looks up the boardwalk for a moment, thinking, before he peers at Jean again. “A-about your note.” He bites his lip, Jean staring up at him unflinching, and it breaks his heart when Marco kinda crumples under it. “You didn’t… leave your number.”

Jean pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, unable to keep his sweaty hands fisted in his pockets anymore. “Forgot.” He didn’t.

“Oh.” Marco sighs, his gaze dropping between them as he runs a hand through his hair. He seems to pick himself up, though, and he slides his hands into his back pockets and frowns at Jean. “Look, uh, what’re you looking for? With this?” 

Knowing exactly what he’s talking about, Jean arches an eyebrow and ashes his cigarette, but Marco doesn’t let him play dumb. He stares back just as strong, already cutting himself out of it. Fuck. “Same thing you are,” Jean croaks after a moment, deliberately not watching Marco’s brow furrow. “Gotta do something to pass the time, right? Having some fun before school starts back up.”

“You—” Marco cuts himself off, squinting hard at Jean, and not the good kind. He bites his lip, tilting his head.

Jean can’t take it. He grinds his cigarette out under his heel and leans toward Marco, breathing smoke as he speaks. “We both get bored easy, right? Said it yourself.” Reaching for his bike and pulling it between them, Jean leans back again and looks Marco up and down, less like he wants to fuck him and more like he’s desperately committing to memory how Marco looks before he really starts hating Jean. “Keeping it easy. Mess around when we wanna. You know.”

Marco’s eyes widen then, right before they squeeze shut, and while he’s not looking, Jean hops onto his bike and watches a cloud pass so he doesn’t have to watch whatever face Marco’s making. He can’t even remember why he’s doing this now. His damage, Marco’s pain, both of them together, bullshit from the past… there has to be some good reason, but even if there isn’t, Jean kinda fucking _really_ fucked this up. No backpedaling. 

“Yeah, okay,” Marco says, his voice surprisingly light. Jean raises his eyebrows at him, watching him shrug again and rub his foot along the back of his calf. “Friends with benefits.”

Jean’s chest hurts. “Yep.”

“Cool.”

“Yep.” A long silence, both of them waiting for the other to break it, before Jean digs his teeth into his tongue and mutters, “See you around,” and bikes off before Marco can respond.

Fuck everything, but Jean’ll take what he can get, even if it’s leagues more than he fucking deserves.

\--

Jean finally gathers the scrote to visit Jilly’s again a few days later, on another rainy Wednesday. He sneaks past Armin and drips his way to the back, where he catches Marco playing with an animatronic skeleton hand. Before the brunette notices him, Jean slides onto his usual stool and crosses his arms on the counter.

When Marco finally stops fiddling with the thing’s bony joints and turns, he blinks widely at Jean, and then his expression kind of falls flat.

“Jean.”

“Hey.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Marco comes to lean against the counter, pursing his lips. “Been a while, huh?”

“I guess so, yeah,” Jean mumbles. “It got busy.” It didn’t.

“Yeah, I kinda saw the other… the other day. I hope that kid’s parents sort him out, he’s not doing himself any favors. Bad start, you know?”

Jean hadn’t honestly thought about it. He only saw pizza-face as an annoyance, rather than, you know. A person. By some definition or another. He just shrugs and wipes at the rainwater running down his face.

Marco watches him for a second, eyes flickering dark and narrowing. It’s not entirely the expression he wears when he’s turned on, not with the way it still hides some part of his happiness. Even so, it’s enough. Marco still wants him, even if he can’t stand the sight of him, and that has arousal curling hot in Jean’s gut. The brunette’s eyes trail up to Jean’s wet hair hanging limply over his brow and narrow further. It’s the way he bites his lip that gives him away, though.

It takes all of Jean’s self-control to keep Marco’s gaze and also not pop a serious boner. He’s felt eye-fucking before, but this is something else.

They’re both thinking about Marco winding his fingers into Jean’s wet hair in the backseat of his car, in the cramped photobooth. Probably also trying really hard not to think about that second one. Too personal.

Jean bites the bullet. “What’re you doing tonight?”

Marco shakes his head, giving a half-shrug. Not much, sounds like. Jean quirks his eyebrow at him, peering up at him through his dripping bangs. Another minute drags by, the silence tight between them, until Marco slowly, steadily reaches out and threads his fingers through Jean’s bangs. He pushes them back off his face, sliding his hand deeper into soaked blonde strands, and Jean’s breath hitches in his chest.

Then those strong fingers tighten just enough. Jean gives a shuddering exhale, not breaking eye contact with Marco, who’s flushed much darker now. His teeth worry at his lip, his own hands wrapped tight around his elbows on the counter, waiting. 

“I’m done at ten,” Marco says quietly. Jean nods, mostly just to feel the pull of the firm grip in his hair. 

\--

Jean’s off work way earlier than ten, so he changes and kills time by going home, showering, banging his head against his shower wall and cursing himself colorfully, and half-shamefully buying condoms and lube from the Rite-Aid. By the time he’s jittery and impatient, it’s almost 9:30, so he just says ‘fuck it’ and makes his way back down to the boardwalk, chain-smoking the whole way.

He parks it on the bench across from the arcade and continues piping smoke up at the cloudy sky. At least it’d mostly stopped raining. 

Marco appears out of nowhere a little after ten, his hands resting in his pockets. 

They barely make it to Marco’s room before Jean’s panting in his ear, rolling his hips into the brunette’s hand cupping his half-hard cock through his pants. Marco pins him against the door as he locks it, mouthing wetly down his neck. He moves quickly, though, and hauls Jean across the room before shoving him onto the bed and sliding between his legs. 

Jean’s head falls back on a raspy moan when Marco _grinds_ their hips together, sighing against his jaw as he does. He rocks against him for another few thrusts, then sits back on his heels and yanks Jean’s shirt over his head. The way he licks his lips makes Jean wanna kiss him so badly. He’s not far gone enough to think he deserves it yet, not even when Marco starts mouthing down his chest and fumbling with the catch of his pants.

 _“Fuck,”_ he manages when Marco’s mouth closes around his cock, tongue curling easily around achingly hard flesh before he’s even got his pants off. Jean reaches into his pockets and pulls out the shit he’d bought earlier, dumping the lube and a few condoms to the side before fisting his hands in the sheets. A good suck has him arching off the bed, another moan escaping him in a rough breath. Marco uses the opportunity to yank Jean’s pants and underwear down to his knees. 

The way Marco nips at Jean’s stomach as he strips him the rest of the way has the blonde shivering, swallowing heavily at the feeling. He really wishes Marco would say something, though, because he hasn’t since they parted ways hours ago. He wishes Marco would kiss him, because he’s caught himself just before their lips meet every time. Shit, he’d settle for Marco _looking_ at him by this point. Anything.

He lets Marco flip him onto his stomach, though, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs when he wriggles up onto his knees and spreads his legs for him. The only response he gets is a soft, breathy moan before Marco’s mouthing down his back and popping open the lube. Jean shivers when Marco’s slick fingers press against his entrance, rubbing gently and easing him into it. It’s the first real show of Marco’s gentleness he’s shown so far. It has Jean shaking, gasping for it.

Meaningless fling, he tells himself. Come on.

Marco slides a finger into him slowly, incredibly attentive to the way Jean wiggles and moans, his face half-buried in the sheets. When he finally thrusts his finger gently into him, trailing little kisses back up his spine and over his shoulder, Jean keens and arches his back, squeezing his eyes shut. Another finger joins the one inside of him, leaving him breathless. “F-fuck, Marco,” he mumbles, trying and failing to muffle the brunette’s name against the sheets halfway through.

“Feel good?” whispered against his ear has Jean shaking again, rocking his hips back onto the fingers working him open. He nods, then stutters out a loud moan when those fingers slide deeper and _curl,_ getting his sweet spot on a damn lucky first try. Jean gasps Marco’s name again, spreading his knees further for him. “Right there?”

“Y-yeah, god, yeah,” Jean moans, fisting his hands tighter in the sheets. Marco fucks him on his fingers a little faster, spreading him open enough to add a third finger before Jean loses his patience. “C’mon, dude.”

Sighing against his shoulder, Marco drops another few painfully sweet kisses against his flushed skin before he pulls away to rip off his own clothes. Fuck, he hadn’t even lost his shirt yet. Jean rakes a hand through his hair and buries his face deeper into the bed, although he’s not sure whether he’s hiding from Marco or from his own embarrassment. 

He hears Marco open a condom, feels him come back behind him on the bed, hears him pop the lube open again, even catches the tiniest of fluttering sighs Marco lets out while he spreads lube over himself. 

All of these are great, but none of them are what Jean really craves, and he thinks Marco knows it.

It doesn’t matter. He arches his back toward Marco and moans softly when the blunt head of his cock rubs slick against his entrance, when those firm, warm hands settle on his hips. “Ready?” Marco asks quietly, his fingers rubbing soothing little circles over Jean’s skin.

He could give Marco sass, or rush him along, or generally be an ass to him, but for some reason, he doesn’t want to now. Even though the air between them now is so different than it was before, even though Marco’s keeping all his sweetness to himself. 

Jean knows he doesn’t deserve that anyway.

At his nod, Marco sighs and squeezes his hips, and then he sinks his thick, perfect cock deep inside Jean with slow, gentle thrusts, and Jean’s fucking _losing it,_ god. He buries his face in the sheets and gasps, rocking back onto Marco even as he muffles needy little noises against the bed. 

When Marco bottoms out, he moans and runs his hands up Jean’s sides, over his ribs, so gentle and so fucking _nice_ that Jean kind of wishes he’d just rail him through the mattress. How amazingly soft he’s being even while he’s distancing himself is making Jean’s chest ache. 

It doesn’t last, thankfully. When Marco gives an experimental roll of his hips and finds Jean more than a little eager for his cock, he groans and pulls back farther and _rams_ his dick into Jean, and the way Jean cries out for it covers the soft moan that had escaped Marco’s lips. The brunette sets the pace like this, hard and fast, impaling Jean and wringing gasping cries out of him easily. The arch of his back lets Marco’s cock slide along his sweet spot with every rough thrust, which has Jean’s eyes fucking _crossing._

It’s too fucking good. Jean’s thoughts are crashing, his noisy moans escaping him freely. He’s entirely sure he’s dripping precome onto Marco’s sheets, but he doesn’t really care when Marco’s fucking him so thoroughly. The fingers gripping his hips pull him back _hard_ even as Marco pounds his cock into Jean’s tight ass, leaving him fucking helpless for it. 

Depending on how you look at it, Marco either has a cruel streak or a merciful one, because he peels one hand off Jean’s hip and winds it immediately into his hair, and Jean _knows_ he’s fucked. So very fucked. And not just by the cock driving him fucking crazy.

Marco _yanks_ his hair, just this side of painful, and _oh_ Jean can’t help the way he fucking _wails_ Marco’s name, his thighs shaking and his hips slamming back into Marco’s fast thrusts. When he pulls again, Jean obediently scrambles up onto his weak hands, shoulders shaking and wet cock bouncing up against his twitching stomach. Marco leans down and _moans_ in his ear, his grip on his hair not letting up, and urges, “S-say my name, say my name for me, c’mon…” 

Jean doesn’t even have to think about it. He leans his head back against Marco’s shoulder and gasps his name, over and over, his voice pitched high and desperate from the way Marco’s cock fucking _owns_ him so perfectly. Marco’s soft sounds are driving Jean fucking _mad_ for him, eager to hear his voice again, to hear the brunette tell him how good he is. The hand pulling at his hair makes it impossible for him to form words, though, but for the increasingly needy cries of Marco’s name and _please, please, please._

The headboard starts banging against the wall when Marco presses them both back down into the sheets and speeds up, his hips slapping against Jean’s ass so fucking _good_ that Jean can’t help but _scream_ for him, his pleas coming in shaking sobs.

Even though Marco’s so thoroughly possessing Jean and fucking his cock straight into Jean’s prostate, something’s still keeping Jean from getting close. It feels _so good,_ fucking _amazing,_ but he can’t come like this. Not when Marco’s biting his lip against his own noisy moans, not when Marco hasn’t said his name once this entire time. Not when Marco has yet to look Jean in the eye.

Jean whines and turns so that he can stare at Marco over his shoulder. Well, Marco’s hair, anyway, given that the brunette’s got his forehead pressed against Jean’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at him.

The change in Jean’s breathy sounds catches Marco’s attention, his hips slowing to a rough grind to give them both a damn break. He finally lifts his dark, fucked-out gaze to Jean’s, finally fucking makes eye contact with him. Even hazy with lust, Jean can still pick out the hurt in Marco’s eyes.

He put that there.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jean whimpers and spreads his fingers over the sheets, an unspoken invitation. After a long moment’s consideration, Marco mouths at Jean’s sweat-slick shoulder as he shakily unwinds his fingers from tangled blonde and twines them instead with Jean’s. Jean grips his hand tight and shivers for Marco, rocking back into now-gentle thrusts with a soft moan of his name. 

“I’m s-sorry,” Jean breathes, looking back at him again. “I’m sorry, M-Marco.”

Marco stills then, his free hand moving to tenderly press Jean’s sweaty bangs out of his eyes. He doesn’t respond yet, though, instead pulling out entirely and easing Jean onto his back.

Winding his violently-trembling legs loosely around Marco’s waist, Jean wriggles as he waits for the brunette to slick himself again with lube. He leans back over Jean then, and when he slides home, it’s slow and easy and has them both gasping. Even better, Marco reaches over and grabs both of Jean’s hands before he laces their fingers again and balances easily on his elbows. It’s so close, so damn intimate, so much better than Jean deserves that he couldn’t even begin to hope for anything more.

Marco’s so fucking nice, though. He’s so nice, and so damn sweet, and he nudges his nose against Jean’s right before he _kisses him, god._ Jean whimpers for him, squeezing his hands. Marco slides his tongue easily between his lips, deepening the kiss, and Jean kisses him back with a soft moan. 

This time, Marco’s thrusts are steady and slow, following an even tempo that has Jean keening against his lips. 

It’s a world apart from earlier. Before, Marco’d been _fucking_ him, _marking_ him like his territory, holding back even as he let loose some wild, animalistic part of himself brought on by Jean fucking with his poor head.

Now, by some grace from god or by virtue of Marco’s incredible capacity for understanding, it’s like he’s _making love_ to Jean, his cock still filling him up so good but now just slow enough that Jean has time to understand how amazing Marco makes him feel. Sort of. As much as he can understand when he’s whispering Marco’s name against his lips, his voice still rough from screaming and still hitching audibly when Marco thrusts into him. 

Jean swallows, his throat dry, and opens his eyes to stare up at him again.

Marco’d pulled back enough that he can see perfectly the faces Jean’s making, how dark his cheeks are, just how incredible he’s being to him. Being watched like this… Jean flushes darker and closes his eyes again, arching his back with a broken moan when Marco’s cock slides past his abused sweet spot. “M-Marco,” he murmurs, sliding his thighs further up the brunette’s sides and spreading them wider. “Marco, ‘s g-good…”

He feels Marco bump their noses again, squeezing his hands with a sigh, and Jean’s so ready to be more than content with this when Marco brushes his lips against his cheek so _fucking_ gently and thrusts deeper into him. Arching up against him again, Jean gives a shuddering moan of Marco’s name, his mouth falling open with a little gasp.

“You look so good like this,” Marco whispers, his voice sending Jean _reeling_ again. It’s so unfair how tight Marco has him wrapped around his finger. He knows he’s tightening around Marco’s cock because he can feel it, and because he hears the moan that it brings out of the brunette. The effect he has on Jean seems to inspire Marco, because he chuckles softly and squeezes his fingers again. “So pretty, you know that? And you take me so well, with the prettiest noises. God, the noises you make…”

Jean’s losing his mind. He tilts his head back with a bitten-back whimper, his body rocking perfectly into Marco’s thrusts. There’s no way he could’ve known that the way Marco whispers to him would set him so on edge, but he’d missed it so fucking badly in the seemingly-endless period of time he’d had to go without it. Marco’s praises make Jean so hot, and so damn brainless he doesn’t even know what to do with himself, and the bastard _knows_ it, too. When Marco speeds up, Jean’s still helpless, still unable to do anything but gasp his lover’s name into the humid air between them.

Even as he’s smiling and chuckling at the way Jean’s falling apart, Marco’s own voice is growing breathier, his moans louder. Jean’s not the only one so deeply affected.

“’M close,” Marco moans against him, his hips moving in deep, quick thrusts now, filling Jean up easily. The blonde licks his lips, opening his bleary eyes to watch the faces Marco makes for him. “S-so close, _god,_ you feel so good. Y-you’re gonna make me come, a-ahh— _Jean—”_

There it is. Marco moaning Jean’s name while his thrusts pick up a little more force, while his eyes slide shut, while his teeth catch his lip again. The way it sounds on his lips is _amazing,_ driving Jean straight to the edge and building his orgasm tight and hot in his gut. His moans spike into breathy cries, his muscles tense and twitching. Unable to stop himself, Jean begs, “M-M-Marco, Marco, I’m gonna c-come, p-please—please w-watch me— _ah—”_

Marco obliges him. He untangles their fingers so he can lean up to sit on his heels, Jean balanced easily in his lap. Wrapping his hands around his bony hips again, he holds him still while he thrusts so _deep_ and so _perfect,_ their sounds filling the air around them. Jean grasps desperately at Marco’s wrists, his thighs and his hips and his stomach quaking for him, and when Marco breathes Jean’s name again in a stuttering, raspy moan, it’s more than enough.

Back arching off the bed, Jean impales himself further onto Marco’s cock as he comes untouched between them, crying out for his lover and tightening around him and holding onto him and dragging him over the edge with him. 

Marco watches Jean come all over himself until it’s too much, until something _snaps_ and he comes so hard he’s left _gasping._ All he can do is curl back over Jean and grind up into his tight ass with a hoarse groan, his hands still holding the blonde’s narrow hips flush against his. Jean whines for him, wrapping his arms around Marco’s neck. He murmurs Jean’s name into his ear breathlessly, and a few times more until he can think through the pleasured fog. 

Jean’s still breathing hard and unsteady, still shaking all over, and when Marco’s lips find his sensitive collarbone again, he twitches almost violently at the attention. “F-fuck,” he gasps, holding Marco tighter against him.

“God, Jean,” Marco finally manages, his voice still rough. “God, you’re incredible.”

Jean’s silent for a long moment, getting his breathing under control again, until Marco gently pulls out of him. They both shudder at the movement. Jean wants keep holding Marco to him, to keep him from leaving, but as the dust settles from his fucking life-altering orgasm, he remembers how bad he actually fucked this up. So he waits for Marco to stop kissing up his neck, waits for Marco to pull away from him and kick him out, waits for Marco to give up on him.

But he doesn’t.

“Jean,” he murmurs as he slides his hands down the blonde’s thighs. “You’re still shaking so much…”

“S-sorry, Marco,” Jean mumbles again, his voice weak. He throws his arm over his eyes so when Marco pulls up, they don’t have to see each other. “I’m sorry.”

At first, Marco’s quiet, but the way his warm palms travel back up Jean’s thighs, over his hips, up his sides keeps Jean from freaking out about it. When he finally speaks, it’s gentle. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”

“Fucking with you. Lyin’. I know I’m selfish, but that’s no fucking excuse.” Jean swallows, his brow furrowing against the crook of his elbow. “I thought… r-really thought you were just looking for a distraction.” Jean grits his teeth, fisting his hands and forcing himself to just spit it out for once. “I lied. I don’t just want some stupid summer bullshit. B-but I know I’m a fuckin’ pain in the ass, figured you’d get tired of me anyway.”

Marco seems to mull this over again, always so careful about picking his words. It’s a trait Jean thinks he could stand to pick up from him. Maybe if he’s really lucky, if he could just stop fucking shit up for five seconds, he could have enough time to learn.

“Were you planning on, uh. Asking me at some point?”

“I don’t know,” Jean sighs, letting his fists relax again. “No idea what I thought I was gonna do. Probably piss and moan all summer and mope until the next one.”

To Jean’s utter shock, Marco _laughs._ Softly, and not mean-spirited at all, and then he leans down and presses a gentle kiss against Jean’s chest. His hands are still rubbing at the blonde’s sides, soothing and so much sweeter than Jean deserves, but he does it anyway and he does it with a smile Jean can feel between those warm kisses. 

Marco’s a god-sent angel and nothing on this earth can convince Jean otherwise.

“Jean, I don’t do the fuck-buddy thing. If I sleep with someone, it’s because I _like_ them. Not because I’m just looking to pass time.” Jean peers out from under his arm, blushing hot at the way Marco drags his lips idly over pale skin. “So yeah, you clearly have some damage, and I’m not saying I don’t. But I came out here to relax. You know, the ocean, the sun, the haunted boots… weirdly therapeutic. Meeting you was another great thing on a long list of reasons to be glad I came. I couldn’t just mope around and miss out on all that.” Marco drops a few more kisses along Jean’s ribs, nuzzling against him while the blonde bites his tongue hard on self-deprecating objections. “By the time I finally cornered you in the photo booth, I had more than slapped a bandaid on my issues and was ready to move forward.”

“… O-oh.”

Another laugh. “Yeah, ‘oh.’” Marco peels himself away from Jean, much to his dismay, but he only moves to run water over a hand towel, presumably for the impressive amount of jizz drying on Jean’s skin. He tosses out the condom and cleans himself off as he comes back and collapses onto the bed next to Jean.

Scratching his nose, Jean mumbles, “Yeah, see, I got it in my head that you weren’t looking for anything special, and that’s, uh. What came out of my mouth.” Jean glances sheepishly at Marco as the brunette gently cleans him off, twiddling his fingers in the sheets before continuing. “Even though I kinda really like you.”

“I kinda really like you too,” Marco hums, leaning down to kiss Jean softly. “I also kinda picked up that you’re the type to make decisions and run with them, so I guess it’s not a huge surprise.”

“’M workin’ on it,” Jean mumbles, avoiding Marco’s gaze again.

“Mhm.” Marco turns and drops the washcloth on the end table, then rolls back to Jean and pulls him against his chest with a sigh. “You know, several people warned me about you being kind of an asshole. I still actively chose to go for it.” He nuzzles into fluffy blonde sex hair and hums over mildly offended splutters. “You saved the day for me a few times, yeah, but you don’t gotta do it all the time. I’m capable of saving myself when I wanna.” 

Jean pokes his lip out and draws little patterns over Marco’s dark skin with his finger, trying to take in the fact that _Marco’s not dumping his ass._ He has a sneaking suspicion it might take a while. Months, probably. “How are you even real.”

Marco laughs, loud and sweet, his arms tightening around Jean in a nearly painful squeeze. “Well, when a mommy and a daddy haven’t gotten sick of each other yet—”

“Yeah yeah okay. Jeez.” Jean wiggles up Marco’s body until he can kiss him again, their lips lingering soft against each other. “Thank you.”

Humming his assent, Marco runs his thumb over Jean’s jaw and quirks a smile at him. “So if I ask you again…?”

Jean sniffs, burying his face against Marco’s shoulder. “I’ll probably say something stupid.”

“So little faith in yourself,” Marco chides playfully, nuzzling again into Jean’s hair. 

Huffing, Jean leans up onto his elbow and looks down at his lover, running his knuckles idly over his cheek. “I am looking for the chance to make you laugh and maybe touch your butt every day. Can I take you to dinner or something? Try to make up for myself?”

“Sure,” comes the instant, easy reply, followed by a loud laugh at the sound Jean makes when Marco pulls him down again and kisses him breathless.

\--

The next day it doesn’t rain, but Jean shows up at Jilly’s anyway, and as he’s trying to sneak back out with his hair standing on end from a rushed make-out under Marco’s shooting-gallery counter, Ymir corners him.

“Oh hi there, he-who-does-not-listen.”

Jean’s eyes widen, his gaze flicking over to his bike, then back to the absolutely _predatory_ grin Ymir is wearing. “H-hey.”

The tall brunette considers him for a moment, watching him quail under it, before sighing and holding out her fist like she’s got something in it. “Here’s a wedding present for you, ya dick.”

“Is it a spider?”

“No,” she huffs, affronted. Before Jean can ask if it’s _two_ spiders, Ymir barks, “Hands out, c’mon, I got shit to do.”

Still nervous, Jean squints at her before holding out his hands. It was a poor choice. Mostly because it leaves him unguarded when Ymir pulls her fist back and then _rockets_ it into Jean’s nose in a loud, messy right hook that knocks him straight onto his back.

Ymir hovers over him with a raucous laugh. “Can’t say I didn’t warn ya! Now go buy some common fucking sense, you asshole. See how much self-esteem you can get with the change.”

“ _Ymir,_ you said it was gonna be the arm!” Marco’s face pops up next to Ymir’s, extremely more concerned and disrupting the wobbly path of Tweety birds circling Jean like vultures.

Jean groans and squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up for Marco and hopefully _not_ his evil cousin. “Am I dying?”

“Oh my god, he’s bleeding _everywhere,_ Ymir, you know kids come in here!”

“Worth it.”


End file.
